Hairy London (15 page)

CHAPTER TEN

The ferry was a shoe-shaped semi-schooner, set with black sails and stinking of skate and seaweed, that had been converted to run folk across the Thames by the captain, Gormane Thinnograde, a loungelubber round of face and flat of feet. He wore oilskins and boots, like the tars who worked for him.

“Have you never considered changing your vessel’s name?” Sheremy asked.

Gormane shook his head. “’Tis bad luck to.”

“But the Titanic stories...”

“Nonsense dreamed up by competitors that we takes no notice of.”

Sheremy shrugged, glancing at Missus. “Seems fair enough,” he remarked. Missus made no comment.

With the anchor hauled up and twenty other passengers aboard, they settled down for the crossing, which Gormane estimated would take five hours.

Sheremy frowned. “You sail so slowly?”

Gormane grinned, as if suffering the naîve notions of a brat. “The Thames is a strange river, full of tales and mystery, that you sir know nothin’ about. ’Tis advisable to steer clear of such mysteries, I’ve found, which makes for a crooked course. Now pay your fee, if you please.”

Lacking coins Missus had to part with her only ring, a silver band given to her inside Bedlam by an inmate. Gormane inspected it beneath his spyglass, then nodded and threw back a trio of copper farthings. “I’m nothin’ if not fair,” he explained.

Sheremy glanced over the gunwale at the fog rolling up the river. Already he could see flashing lanterns in this fog, and hear the appalling cries of victims drowning. Behind him, on the south bank, dogs howled and women wailed. Ancient tales were coming alive...

“I’m going beneath deck,” he said, “before the mysteries grab us.”

They descended a flight of steps to the Sconce Deck, where Sheremy saw a string quartet playing, and, delight of delights, a bar. Taking one of the farthings he purchased a rumour and soda for Missus and a whisky for himself. Goodness, he was in need of a drink; this was his first for some considerable time. Grinning at Missus he said, “This is the life!”

She still looked worried about the Titanic’s notoriety, but her wan smile was better than no smile and Sheremy found himself appreciating what a pretty woman she was.

Dash it, though! She was far below his station. Embarrassed, he glanced away, cleared his throat, then sat her on a stool, and himself beside her. “My dear,” he said, “are you really the daughter of an Indoo princess?”

At once – as if telepathically – she seemed to grasp his thought process. With insouciant grace she replied, “Why Sheremy, you’s got quite the twinkles in your eye. And me only one of the
lower
classes.”

He compressed his lips together, at once annoyed by her cheek, annoyed by her quick wits, attracted by her charm. “My dear,” he said, “one such as I has a station to keep. It’s an accident of birth however. As you know, I value you.” He sipped his whisky. “Seriously, I do. You’re quite something.”

She softened. “I knows you values me. And I values you.”

“What a shame you’re a mulatto.”

She gasped, sat upright, then threw her drink into his face. “You fool! Why’d you have to spoils it, eh?” And she stormed off.

“But... but... accident of birth,” he murmured.

The barman, a tow-headed youth, spat in the glass he was cleaning and began wiping it with a cloth. “I’d run after that ’un and ’pologise,” he said.

Sheremy stood up. “Nobody asked
you,
mister
trades
man,” he said.

He departed the bar and hurried after her, but, escaping the crush at the end of the Sconce Deck, he found that he had lost her. Querying a jack tar he discovered she had fled to the Hoop Deck. He must apologise. He
must.
Visions of mistakes with Valantina returned to his mind, and he cursed himself for being a nincompoop.

“Missus,” he called out. “Where are you?”

As he passed a door an arm reached out, grabbed him and drew him into the doorway. He glimpsed lace, dark hair, heaving breasts; he smelled perfume and fur. Before he realised it he was inside a cabin, a catwoman before him.

“We always gets our man,” she said.

Her voice was soft, and familiar, though he sensed this was not the catwoman who had bedazzled him at the bordello. Must be the other one. Damned hell, he was in trouble.

But too late. She was naked before him and he was taking off his jacket. Her contours were astonishing. It was like pink architecture. He never before had noticed how a woman was
constructed.

Then she lay on her back upon the bed, her stocking’d legs raised high. He flung off his clothes and leaped upon her... then everything was a blur. A blur of intensity like raw meths in his bloodstream, a heat like the heart of the sun. A
thing
beneath him, an animal, and yet a person...

He found himself lying at her side, a single cotton sheet upon his glowing body. She lay beside him. And he looked at her face and saw it fade from cat to human... to woman. It was Missus.

She turned over and gazed at him, her expression unreadable. Her hair was soft and flowery perfumed, her eyes dark orbs of pain, albeit edged with pleasure. “That was nice,” she said with a shy smile.

“So you,” he murmured, “you... are one of them?”

“It’s the curse of Old Father Thames,” she said. “I’m not one now, no... but I used to be. Oh, I used to be, like my mother.”

“Who was...?”

“An Indoo princess she was. Captured by a nob in Calcutty who was stayin’ with the Rajah. Sir... Sir... Fine, was it?”

Sheremy sat up, resting his head on one hand, his elbow digging into a pillow. “Not Fain?”

“Yes!”

“
Hoseley
Fain?”

She drew in a single quick breath. “Sheremy! Yes, that was the name. I’d forgot it ’til now. You knows the man, eh?”

“Know him? He’s an absolute cad. In my club, sad to say. A bounder and a wretch, and he doesn’t like me.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t rightly know.” Sheremy paused for thought for a few moments, pondering the events of the night of the wager. “You know, I
don’t
know. He’s always disliked me, mocked me, taunted me. And for what reason?”

With her forefinger she touched his neck, then drew her caress down his chest to his belly. “Who could dislikes you, Sheremy?”

He nodded. “I’m known as a decent man, my dear. A Britisher. I suppose I do have odd views on Suffering.”

“Do you?”

“Since meeting Valantina Moondusst, yes.”

“Who was she?”

He sighed. “Long story.”

“A paramour?”

“Dead now.” He sighed again. “But I’m here with you, and in all honesty and truth that’s what matters. And... I’m sorry I mocked you for being mulatto.”

“I accepts.”

For a moment, he felt sick. “I’ve been an idiot,” he said. “Until recently, anyway. But I’ll never forget what I‘ve been through lately.”

“You know,” Missus said, “Sir Hoseley might be my father.”

It was such a hideous thought he expelled it from his mind for as long as he could, until she reached out and hugged him. Then he said, “I suppose he could be the vile rapist. If I
ever
find out...”

“Though he mightn’t be. Mother said there was a whole party of ’em.”

“When is your birthday?”

“Eighth of March. I’m eighteen now.”

Sheremy nodded. “Let’s assume he didn’t do it. I think I’d explode if I thought it was him.”

“It doesn’t affect... us, does it?”

He kissed her. “No, my dear,” he replied.

After a while they returned to the bar, where Sheremy used a farthing to purchase more drinks. At a side table he saw a psychic mummer, and, on a whim, he took Missus over to see the man. Old, one-eyed and bedraggled, the man had all the tools of his trade before him: Tarotten cards, wine-and-honey, sprigs of heather, and a bowl of water from which steam rose.

“What is the water for?” Sheremy asked.

“Sees yer fortune,” the old man replied. “A farthin’ only.”

Sheremy shrugged and handed over his last coin. The old man drew them in by gesturing with his hands in melodramatic fashion, until their faces were but six inches from the bowl. Sheremy began to feel uncomfortable. Though the water was clearly hot, the bowl and the table around it was cold, and the man’s blind eye had a distinct glow to the skin, as if something bright lay behind the diseased flap of flesh.

“Ah,” he said, “I see terrors awaitin’, I do. Terrible terrors.”

“Really?” Sheremy said, trying to appear unruffled. “But you people all say that, don’t you? It’s part of the game.”

The old man cackled and clicked his fingers, whereupon Sheremy saw two stick figures floating in the water, that he realised represented him and Missus, floating on a crouton. He stared. Where had these objects come from?

“Ah,” said the old man, “’tis a bane fair trip over the water, ain’t it?”

Missus leaned in, trying to see through the steam what the figures were doing, but then there was a motion behind her and the tow-haired youth bumped into her, knocking her glass out of her hand. Sheremy turned around, vexed.

“I’m so sorry ma’am,” the lad said, retrieving the tray he carried. “Slipped, I did.”

“Go away!” the old man barked.

Sheremy turned back. Missus stared at the bowl. One of the ice cubes in her drink had leaped from glass to bowl, and was now floating towards the crouton. As he watched, it bumped into the crouton. The crouton sank. The stick figure representing Missus sank too, though the other floated. And as Sheremy stared at all this, the string quartet took up and began playing.

~

None of the psychonomists could help Velvene uncover the true nature of love, so he was left with one obvious choice. The Church. Brought up to fear God and stand in awe of Jesus, he realised that the preachers of heaven above must know more about love than anybody, and so one day he clambered into his Archimedean floating system (in which he currently lived, berthed in Paddington Recreation Ground) and flew to the church of Her Holiness The Virgin Mary in Maida Vale.

Attempts had been made to trim the hair around the church, but it grew high nonetheless, brown and thick, falling down from the roof in a floppy fringe. A path had been shaved through the hair, which Velvene followed, walking in silence into the empty, echoing building. He saw a single man in a brown robe polishing crucifixes, a man who turned and smiled when he heard Velvene enter.

“Welcome my son. I’m Father Further.”

Velvene felt soothed. He had been brought up in a house steeped in religion; the church air felt like balm. He replied, “Father, I have come to ask for help.”

“The Church is always here to help members of its flock when they want to confess.”

“Well, I do not wish to confess, more to discuss.”

“But which of us is without any sin to confess?”

Velvene considered. “I cannot think of anything at the moment. But listen, Father, I want to talk about love.”

A beatific expression appeared on Father Further’s face. “God has granted one of my wishes.”

Father Further gestured for Velvene to sit down on one of the front pews. Velvene, complying, continued, “You see, I am part of a wager, the object of which is to–”

“A wager? Betting is a sin.”

Velvene hesitated. “It is an intellectual wager with no money changing hands.”

Father Further pondered this then, reluctantly, said, “Carry on, my son.”

“I need to find out what love is at my earliest convenience. Can you give me any guidance, eh?”

“I certainly can, and I can do it in one word. God.”

Velvene nodded. “Could you be more specific, eh? I may have to give a speech to make my case when the time comes.”

Father Further nodded. “God is love. Pure love.”

Velvene nodded again. This was going to be more difficult than he had envisaged. “How do you
know
God is pure love?” he asked. “If I knew, I could perhaps state the facts to my colleagues.”

“There are no facts in the Church. We have faith, and faith alone supports us and guides us.”

“I am not quite getting my point across here, Father,” Velvene said. He thought back to events in his recent life and said, “Let me give you an example. You know these chaps, Rutherford, Röntgen, Einstein–”

“Don’t mention his name in this sanctified place!”

“-and, er, well, Chadwick, Bohr, Michelson and so forth... they have made discoveries which they support with evidence.” Velvene considered what he had just said and realised he had never thought of things in quite this way before. “By using evidence,” he continued, “they show the nature of the world around us. All I want is some evidence as to the nature of love, so I can explain to my dear colleagues what I have discovered.”

Father Further gazed at Velvene with an expression half scornful, half suspicious. “I say God is love,” he declared. “My faith tells me this. Faith supports the majority of the English speaking world in such a belief. Isn’t that good enough for you?”

“Well, things have moved on slightly, eh? Modern science and all that–”

“Modern science? Can modern science explain why London is hairy? Have the professors at the Royal Institute told us yet?”

“Well, they are probably still performing experiments–”

“You’re an interloper!” Father Further declared, standing up. “I knew it.”

Velvene, irritated, also stood up. “Has God then told you the reason for hairy London?”

“Yes! Sin. The sin of covetousness caused by industrialisation. Greed! It is the same thing.”

“But how did he do it, eh?”

“We do not stand here and ask God for
explanations.
Are you a believer or a mountebank pretending to have faith?”

Velvene, asking himself that question, realised he could not immediately reply. Before his mind’s eye came images of his mother and brothers. Yes, he believed in God... but perhaps not the God of this man, and this Church. “I do not think I am quite ready to become a Darwinian,” he murmured, half to himself.

Father Further ran to fetch a book from the lectern, which he showed Velvene, riffling to a page and opening it. “There. Do you see the face of Einstein? And you dare to mention another of the names of–”